


Day 11: "Why Don't You Take A Vacation?" (a thirty year nap will do you good)

by chiralchaos



Series: Turkstober 2020 [9]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, Turkstober2020, Warning: Hojo (Compilation of FFVII), shinra manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26992438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiralchaos/pseuds/chiralchaos
Summary: His eyelids feel like sandpaper as he peels them open and he braces himself for a scream of blinding light but no, the only small mercy since he regained consciousness is that the room is dim, artificially lit, vaguely … green. He appears to be lying down and the ceiling above him looks like stone, and there is little else he can see without turning his head. He tries, but the shock of pain that fires through his neck as he moves whites out his vision; ribcage be damned, he cries out sharply.The humming stops. The tinkering stops. All he can hear is the static, SO loud, and the ominous bubbling still coming from behind him.“You’re awake ..?”A vacation sounds nice. A staycation, however? Maybe not.
Series: Turkstober 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965964
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: Turkstober 2020





	Day 11: "Why Don't You Take A Vacation?" (a thirty year nap will do you good)

He is in agony. The pain is the first thing to re-enter his consciousness and he can’t move for it, feeling like his very veins are lit with fire, and he would cry out if he could but simply trying to take a breath in feels like his ribcage is going to break apart. He is in agony, his veins are on fire and he can’t breathe, and he can’t do anything about it. What the fuck happened to him?

What the fuck is happening?

There is static loud in his ears but, straining, he can hear tinkering nearby, the clinking of metal on glass, the picking up and setting down of tools. Someone is … humming? Does he know the voice? He doesn’t know the tune. Thick liquid is bubbling somewhere on the edge of his hearing and it mimics the churn of his stomach.

Everything. Hurts.

And so he chances opening his eyes. 

His eyelids feel like sandpaper as he peels them open and he braces himself for a scream of blinding light but no, the only small mercy since he regained consciousness is that the room is dim, artificially lit, vaguely … green. He appears to be lying down and the ceiling above him looks like stone, and there is little else he can see without turning his head. He tries, but the shock of pain that fires through his neck as he moves whites out his vision; ribcage be damned, he cries out sharply.

The humming stops. The tinkering stops. All he can hear is the static, _so_ loud, and the ominous bubbling still coming from behind him.

“You’re awake ..?”

He _does_ know that voice. He knows that voice. He doesn’t know where he is or what is happening, but he knows that voice and everything floods back faster than he can handle. No wonder his fucking ribcage hurts, and no wonder his blood feels like fire, it probably fucking _is_. He knows what the tinkering means. He knows what the bubbling means. He knows why it’s so cold and why the ceiling looks like stone and why he has to get out of here no matter how much his body protests.

But oh, how it protests.

He grits his teeth and tries to pull himself up, but if the pain wasn’t enough to stop him the restraints pinning him down are.

“What are you doing?” he grinds out. The words feel like acid searing his throat. What has been done to him?

“Valentine,” the voice says, sneering, almost simpering, still out of his peripheral. “I was hoping you’d wake up before I was finished, you know. I’d love to hear some feedback on how the process feels from a _still-living_ subject …”

A shadow is cast over him before the figure looms fully into his blurry vision, and he struggles again against the cuffs on his arms.

“Hojo …”

“Valentine,” the professor repeats, clearly delighted to be recognised under the circumstances. He smiles - no, _grins_ \- broadly, and he tips his head to peer into Vincent’s eyes. “Tell me, how does it feel to transcend humanity? To be transformed into something _new_ and _inhuman_ , my very own -”

“Stop …” Vincent interrupts, the pain all throughout him growing and expanding and burning the longer he stays awake. He can’t listen to this. He can’t hear this. He doesn’t know what Hojo is saying but he can’t think past the agony, the confusion as painful as whatever is in his bloodstream. He can’t get himself out of this, but he knows that other people can. “They’ll … they’ll know. They’ll come for me …”

“I‘m sure they will …” Hojo says absently, clearly not listening. He has turned away, and when he returns he has a syringe in his hand. “I love that you woke up again Vincent, but I think it’s time for you to sleep properly now, don’t you? Leave me to do my work in peace.”. If he injects Vincent with anything the Turk doesn’t feel it, not beyond everything else he’s currently feeling. He exhales and stops trying to struggle, a sense of defeat taking over out of nowhere. He wants to be defiant but the flames under his skin seem to have turned to a boiling liquid, and while it’s no less agonising it’s almost more bearable. Maybe he’s just used to it. Maybe he’s given up.

“There’s a good boy,” Hojo says as he drifts, and the words make him feel sick but he can’t do anything about it. His sandpaper eyelids fall closed again and part of him wants to keep them open, but another part thinks it might be easier this way. The static in his ears is louder, and he can’t tell if Hojo is whispering next to his ear or if he is just being drowned out. “Why don’t you take a little vacation?” the professor says (whispers? Laughs? He can‘t tell anymore) “Close your eyes, let your mind wander, imagine you’re going somewhere nice. 

“I’ll tell Lucrecia you left before you could say goodbye.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Turkstober2020 Day 11, "Why don't you take a vacation?". May the records show that I spent HOURS trying to write something light-hearted and fun for this one but no, wasn't happening. Turns out I don't do fun, and trust me - there ain't no getting off this "let's make fun prompts miserable!" train we're on.


End file.
